Page 77 of Brutal Game

“Asher—”

“No,” he said again, emphatic. “I know you want to help, kiddo, but I can’t. The idea of standing in front of the net again makes me want to hurt someone. I can work with kids.” He swallowed. “Be better thanhim. But that’s it.”

“What does the therapist say?”

“She agrees with me.”

I reached over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I want you to be happy again.”

His smile was sad as he covered my hand with one of his. “I know you do, kiddo. That’s what you’ve always wanted. But have you thought about what will make you happy?”

Jack flashed in front of my eyes—the soft, gentle, tender version that had held me in his arms after punishing me.

“You being happy will make me happy.”

He shook his head. “So selfless.”

I changed the subject. “What do you know about Jack Feldman?”

His shoulders stiffened. “Why would you ask about him?”

I felt heat rise to my face. I knew it would be a tell. “Tovah was talking about him. I guess he’s involved with Vice and Vixen on Reina’s campus?”

Asher’s shoulders relaxed. Slightly.

“Yeah, he oversees the dealing, although he doesn’t deal himself. It makes him sound like a bad guy, but he does his best to ensure that it doesn’t get used nonconsensually. They never have it at hockey parties.”

Well, that had certainly changed. I kept my face blank.

Asher warmed up to his topic. “He’s a good guy—volunteers with foster kids like we used to, takes care of his siblings the best he can. And always led the team. He wasn’t the type to give a soft pep talk, but he’d still inspire us to do better. Straightforward, but not a dick.”

That didn’t sound like the Jack I knew. The Jack I knewwasa dick, was cruel, callous, inconsiderate. I couldn’t see him volunteering, or caring for anyone. Did I not know him as well as I thought? As orphans, volunteering with foster kids had been important to both of us, and was something I’d still done at Stanford. What motivated Jack to do so? It made me feel a bond with him, and I didn’t want to.

Asher’s expression had darkened. “I’d trusted him, but he didn’t believe me about what Coach—what Joshua Jensen did to me. Fucking sucks.”

“Yeah, it fucking sucks,” I echoed.

Because I was right, and so was Asher. No matter where he volunteered, Jack wasn’t a good man.

I had to remember that.

The rest of the visit passed by too quickly. We watched TV, walked around the neighborhood, caught up as best we could, given that I was lying to him. On the final morning, Asher insisted on driving me in our old, beat up car to JFK, where I’d pretended I had a flight. I’d winced at the fact that he was spending gas money we didn’t have, but I couldn’t tell him the truth.

Not yet.

After he pulled over at departures, he got out of the car. I hugged him tightly.

“Be good, yeah?” I asked.

He nodded. “I’ll do my best. Do something that makes you happy, kiddo.”

I blinked away tears. “I am,” I lied.

After he’d pulled away, I entered the airport and headed over to the subway, taking it to the train station. The trip back to Gehenom was smooth, easy, leaving me alone with my thoughts: my renewed determination to make things right for my brother, my confusion over who Jack Feldman really was, and finally, Asher’s words.

What would make me happy? I thought getting justice would, and psychology. But was that enough?

What did I want for me?

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